


Punctured

by vanceypants



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Extremely Dubious Consent, Impalement, Intersex, M/M, Monsterfucking, Mouthfucking, Parent/Child Incest, Tentacle Dick, Tentacle Rape, Tentacles, Underage Rape/Non-con, Unrealistic Sex, Vaginal Sex, it sorta straddles the line, when the monster under your bed turns out to be your long lost monster father
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:33:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27365077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanceypants/pseuds/vanceypants
Summary: Christopher always felt he was different from the other boys.  Still, even with humanity making as little sense to him as it did, he never expected revelations to come in the form they did, or from under his bed.  A night of truths about his heritage, his origins, and his body's limitations await, whether he's ready or not.
Relationships: Archelaus/Christopher
Comments: 7
Kudos: 76
Collections: Idol Hands





	Punctured

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the warnings.
> 
> This was supposed to be for Halloween, but I was slow.
> 
> These characters are usually humans, but I decided to go a little hogwild I guess. They're jointly owned by myself and [Sedusa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sedusa). Eventually I'll write more with them, probably.

Christopher wasn’t like the other boys. 

Long legs tucked painfully into his wheelchair, and dark eyes that his foster mother could never quite read, he had a capacity for infuriating those he so longed to form a connection to. The others, the younger boys who clamored for hugs and cookies and cartoons and the older boys who snuck out the window to easy girls and the flirtation of adulthood, they seemed to understand the code better. They had it all downloaded, all etched within their bones in neat calligraphy, while Christopher’s own marrow was blank and directionless and useless.

Maybe it didn’t bother him. Maybe he was too busy navigating through halls that always felt just a little too narrow for his wheelchair, for his momentum, for his aimless mind. His thoughts weren’t vast, but they were loud, the sort of noisy that couldn’t be articulated with the breathlessness of his voice. And so he kept them tucked inward, drowned in them, and tried not to think that it was a little sad that this home--the third foster home in as many years--felt just as hollow as the last, if a little less bruising. 

Being sad would require more energy than his body was capable of expelling.

Christopher wasn’t sad and he wasn’t lonely and he certainly didn’t yearn. 

And he certainly didn’t hear anything under his bed.

Christopher’s latest brother, the closest to his own age at 15, had shared a room with him, briefly. It was a small room, and a little too blue, but Christopher liked the stickers someone had pasted on the door, the edges frayed with the failed attempt to peel them from the paint. And he’d liked when the second twin bed had been occupied. They’d stayed up the first night, talking, and Christopher had tasted his own voice for what felt like the first time in decades, though certainly he hadn’t lived decades yet. 

The second night, his brother had complained about Christopher being creepy and annoying and weird, and he’d been shuffled off to the bigger bedroom, with the majority of the other boys. And his foster mom had smiled that stiff lipped smile that Christopher wasn’t sure how to define, patting him on the head in that way that made his hair feel slick and flat and wrong for hours after. 

It was okay. Christopher didn’t mind it. Without the brother, he was able to have his nightlight again, and the shadows. In his bed, the pressure alleviated from his body, his toes would curl, and he could pretend he no longer had bones, that he could just slurp his way through the hallways, chairless and painless and untethered by humanity.

Slug boys didn’t have to feel lonely. They made slime trails for company and paved paths that only their own kind could truly navigate.

The bed shifted again. And Christopher’s fingers curled around the outer edge of his blanket, tugging it up towards his chin. His eyes shifted from shadow to shadow, as his breath swelled his brittle lungs.

Another jolt.

The bed wriggled, the frame groaning as though exhausted, as Christopher pushed against the mattress with his palms until he was seated upright. His legs twinged with a pain that was more familiar than human touch, as he took a bundle of the blankets and hugged them to his chest. Maybe if he smothered them against himself, it would silence the sudden distraction that was his rapidly stuttering heartbeat.

The molecules in the air stilled around him. Christopher dared not move, as though a twitch of his hands would shatter the atmosphere.

And then he heard it.

The sound was wet, suctioning and almost glistening, if sound could be said to glisten. It lingered upon him, even after it faded. The bed gave another small tremble, before another echo of almost phlegmy sticking squelched against the wooden floor. Following it came a dragging sound, something dryer and heavier, pulling itself about underneath the bed.

Christopher bit his lip, to remind himself of his own flesh, his own belonging, releasing the pressure as the sharpness of his own teeth threatened to tear into his meat. 

The smell wasn’t there, until it was, the absolute surrounding moistness of deep forest underbrush and pine needles and mud. A hint of decay, a dash of new growth. Christopher told himself there was nothing familiar about it, except he breathed it in with an almost ravenous intrigue.

Another shake, a jostling, and Christopher released the blankets, to instead clutch at the mattress itself. It wasn’t enough motion to fall out, or at least he didn’t think it was, but it didn’t stop the brief flashes of vertigo and uncertainty all the same. The musk and the slick sounds crescendoed and reverberated and Christopher wondered if this too would overwhelm him beyond functionality.

And then the man’s head came out from under the bed.

His head was mostly humanoid, thick black hair streaked with silver, almost glittery with the highlights of the nightlight. His skin was pale, with just a hint of shimmer, as though it would be wet to the touch, and his eyes were large, completely black, and unblinking.

There was a familiarity to those eyes in that moment, though Christopher’s own dark eyes certainly had a white sclera to punctuate the blackness of his irises. 

The man heaved himself out from beneath the bed completely, and Christopher finally found himself facing the sounds he’d been hearing. The being before him was tall, impossibly tall, as he unfurled to an upright position. His pale skin was speckled with black splotches, which shimmered with more wetness even than his natural skin. Christopher suspected it was ink of some sort, that he’d be able to wipe it away.

He found himself curious about the taste, repulsion at his own lack of repulsion quickly chasing the impulsive curiosity.

While the man had very human legs and arms, everything seemed stretched unnaturally, a little too elongated, a little too unnatural. 

And then, of course, there were the long, dark tendrils extending from his back.

The tentacles varied in color, some a brilliant blue, some a light-destroying black. A few neatly wrapped around him, as though politely clasping hands before his waist in waiting, while others trailed down, tips resting against the floor. Still others wriggled around freely, thinner ones, as though getting a sense for the air itself, reading things that Christopher was too three dimensional to read for himself.

The man wore no clothing, and Christopher found his gaze curiously moving downward. No belly button, his stomach toned and smooth and occasionally ink-marked.

His groin was a mass of movement, wriggling, curling, suctioning things, all a deep black save for the central-most growth. It was a stark white, perhaps as thick as Christopher’s arm and nearly twice as long. The underside was lined with suction cups, as bleached out as the rest of the appendage. The tip of it was tinted blue, the hint of swelling, almost bulbous, a distinct throbbing carrying throughout the entirety of the unit.

Christopher’s chest hurt.

**”Chrissie.”**

The voice clattered around inside Christopher’s brain, and he instinctively placed his hands over each of his ears, as though to flatten it, deafen it. It did nothing to silence the low laugh that filled his skull, swelled every inch of bone and infected the tender grey matter of his very mind.

His eyes lifted from the creatures’s genitalia to his face in the process. His black lips had turned into a smile, row after row of immaculate ebony teeth glistening in a dangerous sort of seduction. Christopher felt himself pondering how they would feel sinking against his own skin, whether the pinprick sharpness would penetrate his skeleton, whether they were hollowed out like some sort of vampiric alien to suck him dry.

His stomach hurt now. And the laugh, not coming from the creature’s mouth, but rather inside his head again, was softer now, deep and almost reassuring.

**”There’s no need to be ashamed of your desires. It’s natural for a young man to yearn for his father’s attention.”**

Many days, Christopher had wasted fantasizing about what his biological parents might have been. Bankers? Lawyers? Degenerates? Had they loved him even a little? Had they held him before giving him up? Were they still alive? Would they be proud of him?

Christopher had never done anything to make anyone proud, but it was a small comfort, somedays, to pretend that they were out there, wondering about him too. They didn’t have to know that he was unlovable and weird and wrong. In their minds, perhaps, he was still a perfect baby.

Or maybe he’d been something broken and ugly and wrong even then. Maybe that was why they’d given him up.

“I don’t have a father.” It felt vulgar, almost, to speak out loud, with a clumsy human mouth, when the other was gifting him words telepathically. Christopher licked his lips, dry and trembling. “Hi,” He added. Because it seemed polite.

The smile on the other’s face intensified. He was, Christopher thought to himself, actually a little handsome, as far as monsters under the bed who semi-adopted humanoid features went anyway.

Not that Christopher had much experience in admiring attractive men.

Or, well, monsters, for that matter.

**”You look like your mother,”** The creature added. His footsteps were slow, calculated, quiet, but the sound of his tentacles dragging behind him held a tremendous level of wetness. Christopher wanted to look down, to see if the floor was warping with dampness, but he couldn’t tear his gaze away from the other’s devouring eyes or ravenous mouth.

“Are you going to eat me?”

**”No.”** The bed sank, as he sat upon the edge of his bed. Christopher’s body tilted towards the pressure against the mattress, threatening to pour him directly onto him. He managed to keep himself centered in place. **”You don’t have enough humanity to taste right. Though, naturally, your mother was absolutely delicious.”** His fingers were long, the nails tipped in blackness, as he brushed them through Christopher’s own hair. Unlike his foster mother’s touch, this felt light, a satisfying scratch to his scalp coupled with a playful rustle of his locks, and Christopher felt himself tip towards the contact despite himself.

**”Please don’t mistake my lack of hunger for a lack of attraction, of course. I’m certain your guts would look gorgeous spilling for me.”**

Christopher stared at him just long enough for the smile on his face to grow sheepish.

**”Is that not a thing humans say during courtship?”**

“No.” Not, of course, that Christopher truly knew himself. But it didn’t sound like the sort of thing his older brothers would say to their dates.

Everything felt surreal and off. There was a monster who’d crawled out from under his bed. And he was speaking about being his father, and eating his mother, and about courtship and guts. And all Christopher could truly grasp onto was how much he wanted him to pet him again.

**”Of course, my love.”**

The creature’s other hand cupped Christopher’s face. He felt tiny in his palm, delicate, and found himself shivering as his hair was once again stroked, fingernails almost too sharp against him, the prick of claw against his scalp making something burst open and flutter free inside his sternum.

He wasn’t sure if he was falling apart or flourishing. All he knew was he wasn’t ready for the contact to stop.

Christopher never knew how to articulate his questions, how to make himself understood. He stared up at the other’s eyes, and neither blinked. The corners of Christopher’s lips twitched, not quite smiling.

**”There hasn’t been a day that’s passed that I haven’t longed for you.”**

Christopher tilted his face towards the palm against his cheek. His lips parted, his own teeth--always criticized by dentists for their own twinge of sharpness--touching down against his thumb. He tasted salty, bitter. Christopher was in no rush to break contact.

The man pushed his thumb into Christopher’s mouth, the pad of it brushing over the flat top of his tongue. Christopher’s eyes lifted to meet his gaze.

**”Your teeth feel as though they’re developing nicely,”** He spoke into his mind. **”I don’t think they’ll grow as sharply as your full-blooded siblings, but you’ll have some use to them. I’m glad. I know how the mixing of my genes with your mother’s has weakened you overall. I was worried, perhaps, that the humans would have destroyed you for such frailty. Their culture is so foreign to me, I must confess.”**

Christopher drew his face away from his hands, the silken softness of his hair trickling through his digits before separating completely. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

**”I know.”** He took Christopher’s face between both hands, leaning forward, his much larger forehead resting against Christopher’s. **”I took your mother as mine when she was your age. And she gave me you. I still don’t know how she escaped her cage. Humans are so crafty.”** He moved away, only to instead rest his lips against Christopher’s forehead instead. He could feel the sharpness of his teeth just beneath the pillowy texture of his lips. **”I tried to retrieve you, of course, but she deceived me so thoroughly, I thought you were deceased. You were such a tiny youngling, so frail.”**

“And...and then you ate her?” Christopher felt dizzy, as the lips pulled away from his forehead, as his body was ensnared in this creature’s arms. He slipped forth, cheek resting against bare chest. He listened for a heartbeat which never came. 

**”Not immediately. I punished her, certainly, but--oh, Chrissie, you needn’t concern yourself with her. She was just a human. And I’m--we’re--so much more than that.”** He pulled him back, hands against Christopher’s shoulders, as he pressed him down, laid him flat against the bed. One of the tentacles extending from his back reached forth, taking the blanket and sheet in one grip and peeling them away, leaving Christopher shivering in his pajamas.

**”Now let daddy get a good look at you.”**

Christopher’s clothes felt like they were shattering rather than tearing, as tentacles surrounded him on all sides, clutching at fabric and pulling, pulling, until they burst free from him. He looked down at himself, at his own pale chest rising and falling with every breath. How was he breathing so steadily? How was any of this real? 

He’d initially thought the creature was completely silent. But he could hear a dull rumble, more of a purr than a growl, emitting from him. A long, inhumanly red tongue swiped over his teeth, leaving long strands of saliva, which were quickly swallowed, mouth closing once more, as his eyes lingered over Christopher’s exposed body.

Christopher knew what he was seeing. His hairless body was unremarkable, or at least he’d have classified it as unremarkable, if it weren’t for the uncomfortable bafflement it so often left his doctors. The slight swell of his hips framed him immaculately, cradling a centerpiece that earned looks of derision, confusion, and pity alike.

Christopher’s cock was small, slender, and sat limp, though truth be told he found that even when he was aroused, even in hardness, it seemed much softer than the men he watched online. Those afternoons he’d spend on the shared laptop, under the guise of finishing homework, simmering in attraction that he refused to work out with his hands. Touching his miserable body wasn’t an option, but looking wasn’t a crime.

The weight of his cock did little to disguise what lay beneath, his cunt narrow and neat, slick with an excitement he hadn’t even realized he’d been feeling. Strange, usually when he was wet like that, he’d be hard as well.

The creature took his legs, spreading them open, and hummed a little louder in satisfaction. **”I was hoping this was what I’d find. You still doubt our compatibility, despite all the signs of your heritage. Oh, Chrissie, you’ve already made your daddy so proud. Look at you.”**

It seemed silly more than menacing or inappropriate. Christopher watched as the being moved about the bed, until he was kneeling between his spread legs. The white tentacle was pulsing more noticeably, the others surrounding it fanned out as though to ensure it was the focal point. “Proud of what?”

**”Your beauty. Your fearlessness. Such a brave, good boy.”**

He didn’t feel brave, though he couldn’t say he was frightened either. It all felt too dreamlike to strike him with terror.

Even as the tentacle extended forth. Christopher remained laying back against his pillows, as the bulbous tip caressed his cock.

Christopher felt it twitch with the stimulation, and bit his lip as the white tentacle, thick though it might have been, wrapped about it, as though in an embrace. He felt another throb, then watched as his own cock contorted, impossibly flexible, harder now, as it curved in tandem with the other’s. It felt strange, both the involuntary prehensile movements, and the sensation of the creature’s suction cups latching on. They seemed to suck at him, clinging onto his sensitive skin and nearly vibrating.

Christopher gasped, even as he was released.

The white appendage gave one last flick over Christopher’s cock, before drawing back, resting against his thigh instead. The suctions gently clutched onto him, and though he had no evidence yet to know it, Christopher was certain they’d leave behind bruises, marks, proof of their violation of his untouched body. His cock, he saw, continued to wriggle, as though trying to grasp onto something again, and his breathing was no longer steady.

He was reminded of dirty snow on the side of the road as he contemplated the state of his own mind, a slushy of confused, dazed belief.

“Are you really my dad?”

One of the tentacles caressed Christopher’s lips, until they parted. The tip of it began to press inward, the taste even more potent than his thumb had been.

**”Yes.”** He pushed it deeper into his mouth. Christopher felt the narrowed tip of it wriggle against the entrance of his throat. He thought about how easily he choked on vegetables, on flavors that didn’t agree well with him, on his toothbrush, and waited for his gag reflex to kick in.

It never came, even as he felt it move deeper, until all he knew was this creature’s, this stranger’s, his _father’s_ inhuman taste.

**”It’s going to be so hard to hold back, to keep from tearing you apart. You feel so soft.”** He rolled his tentacle back and forth within Christopher’s mouth, easing in deeper with every thrust. It felt warm and full within him, and Christopher felt drool begin to pool at the corners of his lips, coaxed down his chin whenever he pulled back. The sensation of his own spit made him feel dirty, though not as much as the way the cool air of the room seemed to collect at the piercing heat of the wetness between his legs.

Christopher’s legs ached with the way a pair of tentacles grasped at his ankles and wrenched him open. The dull ache was a familiar reminder of his own frailty, and he took just a moment to contemplate how incapacitated he’d be the next morning after stretching his muscles so cruelly.

His father ran the edge of his fingernail along the underside of his twitching, squirming cock--were these motions ever going to still again? Had he become cursed to these fits eternally?--and the sharpness was almost too much, almost painful, as though he might pierce him, unzip him from his very flesh. The touch stopped at the tip of him, and his father touched him softer here, flesh instead of claw, rolling and prodding at his cock head with a confident curiosity.

**”Beautiful.”**

The bed swayed as he moved himself closer, the white tentacle roughly yanking itself from Christopher’s thigh. He felt his skin tingle where the suction cups released and Christopher swallowed rhythmically against the tentacle filling his mouth as he lingered in the sensation of it. His skin prickled, and he found himself trying to peer down at himself to see if, indeed, and bruises were left behind. 

He was distracted by the rounded tip of the white tentacle swiping against his cunt. Christopher’s toes curled inward, his ankles giving a futile jerk against the tentacles clutching him, and he found his arms extending forth, only for yet another set of tentacles from his father’s back to extend, grasp his wrists, press them back against the mattress.

He lay pinned, a butterfly in an exhibit, as his father perched above him. The bulbous tip, he realized, was crowned with a suction of its own, and it briefly clung to Christopher’s cunt, pulling back with a string of his wetness. It swayed between them, before bursting in one final pop. Christopher’s face felt as though it were burning nearly as hot as his groin, though he wasn’t certain if it was arousal or fear or embarrassment drawing the reaction.

**”I’ve dreamed of teaching you your place beneath me all these years. I never imagined you’d be so lovely.”**

The roundness of him rested snuggly against him, giving a slow roll, before he felt him adjust. Sharp fingernails bit into his hips as he felt him rub against the entrance of his cunt, tight and virginal. Christopher’s breath came sharp, and the noises he made were muffled and inhuman.

That was fitting though, wasn’t it? If this were his father, it was natural the sounds he’d make for himself would be otherworldly as well.

**”That’s it. Give yourself to me, Chrissie. You know what you were born for.”**

The texture was tacky, sticky, almost gooey as he felt his body squeeze around the head. It contorted under his pressure, but phased through, pressing inward with limited resistance. Christopher tried to pull his mouth back, but couldn’t shake the tentacle filling his mouth, his throat, utterly dominating his esophagus.

He could feel the fluttering pulsation within him, his own heart rate seeming to pool into his groin in response. Christopher’s salivary glands worked in overtime, as though to lubricate the throatfucking which had grown more brutal, deeper, deeper, the speed of drawing back only beaten by the haste of pushing inside. Christopher gurgled softly, and his father flashed another grin of his blackened teeth.

The white tentacle sank inward still further, breaking through Christopher’s hymen while his suctions continued to grasp and release at his inner walls, too wet for purchase. The pain was sharp and vibrating and Christopher had to close his eyes to try to make sense of every sensation going through him. Pressure on his limbs, fullness in his throat, and a continued thrusting within his cunt, all while his cock ached and twisted and quivered, untouched.

The tentacle began to draw backward, though the head seemed to have swollen, catching, refusing to release from him completely. It rested within him, before his father was pressing it in again, deeper, gliding over every inch of his tender, stinging insides. 

The pattern etched itself inside him, little by little deepening. Occasionally, Christopher would feel his body tense, or the tentacle hit some resistance, but with enough prodding, enough ramming, enough blunt pressure, he’d find even these areas opening up.

He didn’t dare think too deeply to classify what it was this man was hitting, what he was penetrating with the depths of his thrusts, what he might be rearranging or ruining.

His eyes opened, vision swirling in the shadows of his nightlight, gazing up at the ceiling. He could hear the purr of his father wrap around him, as another twist of motion pushed deeper into Christopher. He swore the tentacle must be expanding, swore he could feel his stomach itself swell with the fullness inside him. He wanted to look down, but the penetration of his mouth prevented him.

His father wasn’t speaking into his mind, but Christopher felt himself sensing him anyway. The roar of his sexuality, pinging around within his brain. Arousal. Pride. Love.

Christopher boiled underneath it, bubbling and popping with a sense of need that he hadn’t realized he’d been starved for. It ached, but he found himself lifting his hips, pressing upward. The movement inward snaked and curled and never seemed to end, and Christopher found himself wishing his body contained more depths, more cavities and crevices to explore. He wanted his daddy to know him, to know all of him, to claim all of what he’d missed in all the years he’d spent growing up alone. 

He whined as the tentacle pulled out of his mouth, feeling a spill of fluid, thicker than his saliva, travel down his chin, pooling against his neck. He lifted his head, trying and failing to grasp the tip with his lips. 

**”Needy,”** His father gently chided. Christopher hadn’t realized it, but his own body was vibrating with the same purr his father was emitting. He wondered, much like the movements of his cock, if this would be a permanent state. He couldn’t imagine ever feeling any other way but this from now on.

The pressure at the very base of his throat briefly suffocated, and Christopher let his world grow still. The dangerous tease of it, a circle and flick and rub of swollen tip. His cunt quivered desperately around the bottom of his father’s tentacle, tight and needy and wet. 

One of his father’s hands finally released his hip, taking his cock into his palm, and Christopher’s eyes rolled backwards into his skull. 

His sounds were stolen as the white tentacle within him burst through, filling his throat from the bottom up, an explosion nearly as intense as the orgasm blinding him. Christopher shook as he skewered him, his throat rippling around the appendage, until he tasted his own blood and the murky depths of his father’s unique flavors, feeling it fill his mouth. Christopher’s lips were forced open further as the tentacle breached his mouth, teeth scraping against fleshy suction cups, as they pressed outward. It moved out enough for him to see the very tip of it, wriggling unfocused before him.

The entire tentacle within him gave one more desperate throb, pushing outward, expanding, until Christopher thought his body might split in two. Fluids spewed from the tip, black and viscous, Christopher barely closing his eyes in time before his face was splashed with the aftermath of it.

He could feel his father roaring within his head, a monstrous sensation that was more touch than sound.

And then silence.

Christopher dared not move, as he dangled upon his father’s tentacle, limbs no longer grasped as firmly, though he chose not to tug them away. Every muscle, inside and out, burned with a sort of pain he hadn’t realized he was capable of comprehending.

He felt as though he were being turned inside out as the tentacle began to pull out of him, finally free from his mouth, freeing his throat, freeing his stomach, then finally leaving only his cunt ensnared.

**”You’re just so warm, I want to stay here forever.”**

Christopher tasted his lips, blood and inky cum, but found his throat too weak to swallow. He let himself drool freely, eyes unfocused, dazed, as the bulbous tip of the tentacle tugged once, twice, three times before freeing itself.

He felt the bed soak underneath him with cum, or perhaps with blood. Christopher couldn’t think well enough to distinguish which was which.

His father’s teeth were warm and sharp as they caressed over Christopher’s stomach. Christopher tried to suck inward futilely, as though to pull his soft skin away from the bite, but his father followed every movement effortlessly. The sharpness indented against him for just a moment, then released, another soft laugh resounding in Christopher’s head.

**”Oh Chrissie, there’s just so much to teach you.”** Warm tentacles wrapped around him, cradling him, tugging him close to his father’s chest as he rose. Christopher lay limply in his grip, eyes briefly flickering over his face for any signs that this might, indeed, just be a very graphic dream.

His body remained solid and tangible and real. Inhuman, but real.

Christopher’s head flopped to the side, watching as the room shifted around him, as his father moved to the bed. The frame moved aside, revealing the dark, swirling portal etched into the floorboards, clearly the entrance his father had chosen in order to make his way here, to finally reclaim his son.

**”I’ve waited so long to raise you, my love. Oh, we’re going to have so much fun.”**

Christopher felt the universe drop out from underneath him, as his father stepped into the portal, his visions of humanity swirling into a final pinprick above him, out of reach and incomprehensible.


End file.
